


Badass

by autumnlouise



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-27
Updated: 2018-01-27
Packaged: 2019-03-10 07:09:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13497210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/autumnlouise/pseuds/autumnlouise
Summary: When Molly helps to crack one of the toughest cases in London, Sherlock has to face the possibility that his wife may be more badass than even him.





	Badass

**Author's Note:**

> Elennemigo on tumblr requested the prompt, "How is my wife more badass than me?" I had a lot of fun with this one. I threw in some ACD canon references, too– bonus points to whoever can find them!

Sherlock Holmes knew his wife was tough and could take care of herself– but he still couldn’t help but worry when he emerged from the depths of a crime scene to find her bleeding, wrapped in a bright orange shock blanket, and covered in broken glass. Heart pounding, he raced towards her, eyes immediately searching her figure for any major wounds. John Watson was just behind him, eyes wide at the sight of blood marring Molly’s porcelain face.  “What happened? Are you all right?” Sherlock demanded.

Molly put her hands on Sherlock’s shoulders, looking into his eyes with a fearless gaze despite the little cuts all over her face and arms. “I’m okay, Sherlock.” she said soothingly, “I’m just–”

“The newest member of New Scotland Yard’s crime unit, that’s what!” Lestrade grinned, jogging towards them. He pointed a thumb back towards the swarm of police cars hovering outside the bank, where several members of Lestrade’s crew were loading a rather burly-looking man into the backseat. “It was thanks to you two that we got the wingman, but if it weren’t for Molly here, there’s no way in hell we would have finally arrested John Clay!”

John and Sherlock exchanged a confused glance. Molly, her cheeks reddening, was barely able to say, “Oh, it was nothing.” before Lestrade launched into the story of how she had single handedly saved the day. 

Over the past several days, John and Sherlock had been working on a case brought to them by a young Mr. Wilson. The man had been personally hired to hand-write every entry, in alphabetical order, from Wikipedia, yet suddenly dismissed only a few weeks into the job. Deduction and investigation brought them to the conclusion that Mr. Wilson’s employers had been using his house, which was vacant during the hours of his work, to dig a tunnel into the nearby bank– and that the leader of this scheme was none other than the infamous John Clay, a thief in the night who had eluded Lestrade three other times before. On the night of the robbery, Sherlock, John, and Lestrade had been lying in wait in the bank’s underground vaults, while Molly stayed in the car outside, monitoring the entrance to see if anyone suspicious exited or entered. The three men had caught Clay’s assistant red-handed while breaking into one of the vaults, but Clay himself was nowhere to be found.

Or so they’d thought.

His assistant had been a red herring to distract them while the thief slipped out of the bank unnoticed with a bag full of specie, gold, and silver. Upon reaching the outside of the bank, he had noticed Molly sitting alone in John’s car. Hoping to steal the car and make his getaway, he smashed through the passenger window and threw himself inside. But Molly Hooper-Holmes had only taken one look at the man before elbowing him straight in the face, launching herself out of the seat, and pressing down  _ hard _ on the key fob’s panic button. 

“She got him right in the temples,” Lestrade said proudly, wrapping a friendly arm around Molly. “Hit him so hard he blacked out. And even if he hadn’t, with that car alarm, the whole street knew something was wrong. No way he could’ve escaped with Molly Holmes on the case.” Molly finally allowed herself one triumphant grin, flushed from the praise. 

Beside him, John whistled. “That,” he said, “is badass.”

And it was John’s words that made Sherlock freeze.

Molly laughed. “I learned from the best.” she chuckled, smiling at her husband. 

But Sherlock’s expression was vacant. Molly’s smile faded into a grimace, and she cringed, putting a hand to her scratched face. Pushing past Sherlock, John reached for Molly, instantly slipping into his steady doctor’s persona.  “That looks like it hurts. Come on, Molly, I’ll go patch you up.” He elbowed Sherlock in the side as he passed, trying to get him to  _ say something _ . But the detective was too lost in his thoughts, and didn’t notice Molly glancing back at him sadly as John led her to an awaiting ambulance. 

_ That is badass. _ John had said. John never called Sherlock badass. He rarely ever complimented him anymore, come to think of it, and he’d been acting more impressed with Molly that he ever was with Sherlock. Even Greg had hailed Molly as a hero and the woman of the hour, something he hadn’t done for Sherlock in years. This could only mean thing. 

Molly Hooper-Holmes, his wife, was more badass than him.

Sherlock’s brows furrowed at the thought.  _ How is my wife _ , he asked himself, looking after her and thinking of his sweet, loving Molly,  _ more badass than  _ me? 

Sure, Molly was strong. She could hold her own and let everyone know that she wouldn’t stand for sitting on the sidelines and being ordered around. But stronger and tougher than him? He, Sherlock Holmes, was the very  _ definition _ of badassery. Flowing coat? Check. Smoldering look? Check. Superior intelligence? Check. Impeccable and impressive crime solving record? Check. 

Sitting in the doorway of the ambulance, Molly was smiling and laughing as John cleaned her wounds. Sherlock knew the sting of iodine well– had become accustomed to it over the years– and was impressed that she held such a straight face. A moment later, John removed a sterilized needle from the medical kit beside him, threading it casually while he and Molly conversed. Sherlock cringed at the sight of it; he  _ despised _ needles of any sort and hated getting stitches. But there was his wife, wrapped in her shock blanket, grinning, while John Watson got ready to stitch up one of the larger gashes on her forehead. Sherlock didn’t even see John administer any anesthetic before starting to work.

Now  _ that… _ that was something Sherlock would call badass. She barely even cringed as John worked, just gritting her teeth and closing her eyes. Sherlock had to admit that Molly was certainly more badass than him in that moment. 

But the more Sherlock looked at her, the more he realized… it wasn’t just now that Molly was tough and fierce. His wife was a type of badass all her own, one that was different… and, yes, almost more impressive, than his.  Flowing coat (in white)? Check. Smoldering look (the fire in her eyes when she had to put him right)? Check. Superior intelligence (published in multiple science journals, one of the most renowned pathologists in London, head of the department at St. Bart’s)? Check. Impeccable and impressive crime solving record? She was getting there. There were many cases he would not have been able to solve without her help both in and out of the lab, especially this one. 

Molly Hooper-Holmes was certainly more badass than him, even if it was hard for him to admit. And she deserved to hear it. John had finished with the stitches and was packing up the medical kit he’d been using– now was the perfect time to tell her. Walking over to the ambulance, he sat down beside her and wrapped his arm around her shoulders.

“Hello, DI Hooper-Holmes,” he teased quietly. Molly smiled softly but did not press against him as she usually would have done. “You were brilliant.”

His wife frowned ever so slightly at those words. “Do you really think so?” she asked with a sigh. “I didn’t mean to steal your thunder, Sherlock, I know it was your case and–”

Sherlock put a finger to her lips. “Molly. You deserve all the recognition you are going to receive, and I apologize for making you think that I felt otherwise. This was never just my case– it was John’s and Lestrade’s, too. And now yours.” 

Molly leaned her head against Sherlock’s shoulder. “Well I’m relieved to hear you say that.”

They sat there for a moment, the two of them cuddled together in the doorway of an ambulance while one of London’s most wanted criminals was arrested. The red and blue police sirens illuminated the thick black fog of England’s nights. A few tiny, white stars were visible over the light of the city.

Finally, Sherlock looked over at her and admitted, “Like John said… I think you’re… badass. More badass than even me.” 

But Molly had fallen asleep against him, eyes closed and unable to hear the compliment he had just bestowed upon her. Sherlock smiled softly and drew her closer, pressing a tender kiss to the skin just beside her stitches. He would have to tell her again in the morning. And possibly every day for the rest of their lives, just to make sure she knew.

“Don’t worry,” John said from inside the ambulance, trying to hold back his laughter. “She knows. We all do. It took you far too long to realize that, mate.” 


End file.
